Undertaker's Diary: 1888
by Decadent Meerkat
Summary: The journal of a humble funeral director during late 1888. Features some implied Undertaker/Druitt and necro-fetishes.


**Undertaker's Diary**

**28****th**** August 1888**

My surplus stock is piling up again, even the customised oak with the brass fittings and luxurious velvet inlay (comfortable and surprisingly affordable, if I do say so myself, and almost barely used). Not fair is it? I might have to start arranging some accidents to clear the coffin backlog. Amusing accidents; there's the ticket.

**29****th**** August 1888**

Oh joyous day. A Mr Smithers from the local orphanage called into the shop this morning. It seems there's been a fatal outbreak of consumption among the children. I go round tomorrow to pick them up. Smithers wanted to pay extra for keeping this under my hat, but I told him it's all part of the service, and did a happy dance. I might need a cold bath tonight.

An obituary has ended up in _The Times_ 'wanted for hire' section. I laughed for hours. Why, it's almost as if they knew!

**30****th**** August 1888**

Went around to the orphanage. There they all were. Pale waxy skin, all sleeping so beautifully, free from this cruel world of lies and deceit. No-one will ever hurt them again.

I have three to play with, probably more to come. So many nice fresh organs... the formaldehyde can wait though. It's no laughing matter if their guts spill out.

I am definitely having a cold bath tonight. Perhaps with company.

**31****st**** August 1888**

My little darlings look so pretty propped up around the breakfast table. We all had toast and tea, and I even made some bone biscuits and cupcakes. I laughed and cried; it was just like having a family again. Can't write more right now... my eyes are welling up.

Update: Ooh. Prostitute murdered in Whitechapel says _The Times._ Must investigate.

**1****St**** September 1888**

Nasty business in Whitechapel. Organs removed and everything. If the Medical School has contracted with another source, I will not be laughing. Though if this is just some random crazy hacking up people for no good reason at all, well, what is society coming to?

**2****nd**** September 1888**

Some fresh guests called in last night, so I've retired the old ones. One of them even has an eyepatch! I took the liberty of shaving off his beard. It's easier to pretend that way, and you can always tell the family it was for hygiene reasons. Hahaha.

**3****rd**** September 1888**

I closed the shop early to go have tea with Aleister. He denies knowing anything about the Whitechapel business; besides, he says he doesn't believe in damaging his merchandise. I had a good laugh at that. So good that I was almost tempted to let him drug me after all. Poor Aleister. He tries so hard.

**4****th**** September 1888**

At last. Those blanked reels have finally arrived. You'd think we Shinigami would have perfected the art of smuggling stuff out the library, but clearly not. Humans are so much more enthusiastic about corruption. They've got a better sense of humour too.

**5****th**** September 1888**

I've finished recording a couple of episodes. I would have preferred more, but who knows when I'll get more reels to play with?

I think I'll leave the actual attaching for tomorrow, when I'm less excited. Meanwhile I'm planning a cold bath and an early night.

**6****th**** September 1888**

Didn't get much sleep. Oh, and there goes my last clean sock too. Still, it was worth it – this is a day that will live in history! When my creations conquer the world, I will point to this as the moment it truly began.

Update: I carefully attached my recorded episodes to the end of the existing cinematic record. And, just as I thought, my guest opened her eyes! Then things got a bit exciting, and not in a good way. She chased me into the main shop, and wrecked three discount coffins before I beat her skull to pulp with a hammer. Thank goodness the police didn't turn up at that moment. That'd have been hilarious, but awkward.

**7****th**** September 1888 **

Perhaps she went after me because she recognised my face from the added episodes? This calls for more experiments...

**8****th**** September 1888**

Another nasty murder in Whitechapel. Identical to the last one, it seems. The papers even have a name for the murderer: Jack the Ripper. Wouldn't surprise me if it was Jill the Ripper, to be honest.

I took the precaution of tying my guest down this time, which was just as well, because he kept biting. So they still attack, even when the added episodes don't have me in them. Interesting.

**9****th**** September 1888**

Sunday, so shop closed. I spent the whole day entertaining my guests (though they're no longer guests, really. They're more dolls. Dolls, yes, that's it...) . I can rule out them hungering for warm blood, since I put a caged kitten within reach, and retreated to another room. When I came back, the kitten was still there, uneaten.

So my dolls want flesh, but not just any old flesh...

**10****th**** September 1888**

I called in to see Aleister. The footman answered the front door wearing a leather uniform that left nothing to the imagination. I've heard about this. It's all the rage in France.

"The Viscount is busy."

"Not too busy to see me," I said. "Where is he?"

The footman shrugged. "In the master bedroom, but..."

"Excellent," I said. "I know the way."

Aleister had two buxom wenches and a bearded midget with him. Beside the bed was a heap of white powder. Say what you will about the Viscount Druitt, he keeps an open mind.

"Undertaker!" he said, when he finally noticed me. "Join in! Sample the sweet pleasures of these beauties, and have your soul swept away to new and exciting peaks of ecstasy!"

I shook my head. "This is strictly business, Aleister. I need some of your merchandise. I'm doing experiments."

Aleister looked thoughtful. "I'll give you a couple for free if you join in."

"Fair enough," I said. "On condition you all shut your eyes and lie _very_ still."

Business is business, but I'm not averse to a bit of pleasure now and again.

**11****th**** September 1888**

I have run out of blanked reels to play with, but have made an important discovery: my little dolls go after anything with a soul. They ignore dogs and cats, and each other, but they chew happily on the living. The little girls Aleister gave me are covered in bite marks, and would have died if I hadn't intervened.

So soulless creatures hunt that which they do not have, namely souls. Of course, it all makes sense. I need to do more work. Now if only I can get my hands on some more blanks.

**2****nd**** November 1888**

Found diary! Silly me; it'd fallen behind my big bottle of formaldehyde. My sources are telling me Her Majesty is most disturbed by the Ripper situation. Probably because people are now pointing the finger at her own family, silly tart. London has been in turmoil for months. Which means a certain person is about to get involved. Damn him.

**3****rd**** November 1888**

My contacts at the Medical School say they haven't seen the missing organs. They aren't lying. I made sure of that.

**4****th**** November 1888**

I've had a brilliant idea for regulating my dolls' behaviour. Now if only the next batch of blanked reels would hurry up so I can see if it works. If it does, my creations will never turn on me again.

**5****th**** November 1888**

Another Monday, and sure enough, You-Know-Who turned up not an hour after opening, with that accursed creature he calls a butler. They wanted to know about Jack the Ripper. Of course.

You'd have thought my little darling would have a decent joke prepared. My terms are laughs for information; everyone knows that. I like my levity; something needs to brighten the grimness of existence and make us feel a little less alone. But the Earl remains incapable of humour. It's the Queen, damn her. Perhaps one day I'll free the boy from the misery others insist on foisting upon him.

And alongside the Queen is the butler, watching and waiting. But I will give our demon credit. His scheme to get the Earl into the contract is simply hilarious. A first rate laugh indeed. So I told them about the missing organs. Good luck to them, I say.

**6****th**** November 1888**

Have come down with a nasty cold. Will have to miss Aleister's extravaganza tomorrow night. Oh well, I can stay at home and play with my dolls. The dead don't catch diseases (or give them, so long as you're careful).

**7****th**** November 1888**

Ooh. Aleister has been arrested. How careless of him; he's got the money and connections to get off, but, until he does, this means I'll have to source certain items elsewhere. The paperboys are already shouting that the Ripper's been caught. Not sure about that. One one hand Aleister does have a medical degree and far too much time on his hands. On the other hand, removing parts himself isn't really his style. When it comes to playing with organs, our friend the Viscount prefers to play middle man, as the actress said to the bishop.

**8****th**** November 1888**

Well, that was quick. Nasty murder in Whitechapel again overnight, and definitely our man Jack. So Aleister may be a kidnapper and a pervert, but he ain't the Ripper. Most interesting. And my sources tell me we have the Earl to thank for Aleister getting rumbled. Hahaha. Got it wrong, did you, boy?

**9****th**** November 1888**

My Medical School contacts tell me there's a new chappie in town. Last name Stoker, and with an unhealthy interest in resurrecting the dead. He could be a useful pawn. A hilariously useful pawn. I might pay him a visit.

**10****th**** November 1888**

Oh my. Two new guests: an unfortunate prostitute by the name of Kelly, and an equally unfortunate Angelina Dalles, alias Madam Red. The Earl and the butler came in to explain that the poor Madam had several screws loose, and was actually the Ripper. Kelly was her last victim. Could I arrange burial for both? Keep everything hush hush? Young Earl, I would be delighted.

**11****th**** November 1888**

Ooh. Both Kelly and Madam have their full quota of organs, save that Madam was missing her uterus. Things make rather more sense now.

I'll let Madam be. Family crypts are hard to break, and I really don't want the Earl on my case just yet. As for Kelly, well, I've been paid to spruce her up a bit and bury her. Which is exactly what I'll do. The Earl didn't say anything about not digging her back up afterwards.

**12****th**** November 1888**

The Stoker chap is a Dr Ryan. He's got himself a cushy appointment with Karnstein Hospital. And by all accounts, he's absolutely fascinated by solving death. He was too busy to see me, so I left my business card with the Secretary instead. I danced a jig all the way back down the stairs.

Now, I wonder if Stoker is the cultist sort. I like cults, they take themselves so seriously it's bedwettingly hilarious.

**17****th**** November 1888**

Damn it. Spilt formaldehyde over the diary, and it's only now dried properly.

Met with Stoker over brandy and cigars this week (his brandy, his cigars). I told him I used to do some important work for the Father Above, but that my interests were now in salvation by science. He was eating out of my hand by the end. I think our new cult ought to have a ridiculous initiation ceremony. A dance or something...

**18****th**** November 1888**

Funerals for my two guests. The Church was packed with mourners for Madam. The Earl wasn't among them; probably didn't want to feel a hypocrite. He was standing over Kelly's grave though; said she died because he'd put catching the Ripper first. He doesn't regret killing his aunt either: the Queen's orders and all.

Butler or no butler, I nearly ripped the little idiot's throat out for that. Does Vicky the Thicky care that she's made the Earl's life a living hell? Of course not. He won't get a rest till he's dead. Not that he understands yet. But he will, oh yes, he will.

And when that day comes, I will be waiting. With a special coffin.

**19****th**** November 1888**

We are... THE PHOENIX. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. Oh too funny. Hahahahahahahahahaha.


End file.
